


Closer

by petrovasfire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Nogitsune!Stiles, Werewolf!Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-07
Updated: 2014-03-07
Packaged: 2018-01-14 21:43:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1279897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petrovasfire/pseuds/petrovasfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“There’s nothing different about me. I’m still that wimpy kid who’s crazy about you. I’m still failing Economics and I still have poor social skills. I can just run better now, and apparently I also heal self-absorbed banshees.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Post-Nogitsune!Stiles (sort of), and beginning of Werewolf!Stiles.

All that’s spiralling in Lydia’s mind is _Please please please don’t let me be too late, please please please_ as her legs carry her from Beacon Hills High School to the hospital. It only took a simple text from Allison to let her know that Stiles was hospitalised yet again, even after they’d claimed to have pulled the Nogitsune out of his body. Lydia thinks about the last time he was admitted—he began shouting at everyone, and eventually five nurses had to hold him down on the hospital bed. In the end, he still had to be sedated heavily.

Her heart doesn't feel like hers—it has never throbbed against her chest so hard she feels it leaping up to her throat. The more she pushes herself to run faster, the higher her heart bounces, and she’s convinced it’s just going to crash against every organ in her body.

As soon as she makes it to his door, she swallows hard before pushing it open.

He’s lying on the hospital bed. He’s still, and for a moment Lydia thinks he’s asleep, but then his eyes are open. When she moves closer to him, she notices he’s looking up at the ceiling. His eyes are glassy and lifeless, almost sunken in by the dark rings around his eyes. His mouth is pursed and his forehead is creased with lines upon lines, as though he’s studying the white blank space hanging above him.

Lydia hesitates before whispering, “Stiles?”

Stiles tilts his head a little and his eyes flicker towards her, but he’s not so much as looking at her than he is _through_ her.

“Stiles, it’s me.” Her voice is rough and low, and she’s still panting from all that running. “Lydia.”

“Lydia?” Stiles croaks, and one of his hands starts to ball up into a fist. He’s struggling to make out what she’s saying, Lydia can tell, and she swallows hard again before nodding.

“Yeah,” she says slowly, forcing a smile on her face. _Please please please_ , her mind chants again.

Lydia can almost see Stiles smiling back at her, and just like that she’s sure he’s okay. She squeezes his fist and he relaxes. Lydia rests her chin on the side of the bed and watches him breathing; watches his chest rise and fall to the rhythm of her own heartbeat. She strokes the back of his hand with her fingers. His skin is smooth and soft, despite hours upon hours of sleepless nights. His eyes start to close, and then her own eyelids feel lazy.

She expects him to call her name softly again when he wakes, but as soon as her eyes flutter open she sees him breathing heavily, his nostrils flared and his eyes hollow. In his free hand he’s holding something that glints under the hospital’s fluorescent lights—

As Lydia is peering at the object in his hand, he brings it forth and quickly lunges it into the side of her body. Only then does she realise it’s a knife. She doesn't scream, though. She just gasps a little before the weight of her body catches up to her and forces her down onto the floor. The lights are dimming before her, but before it blurs completely, she swears she can see a brief shadow of guilt on Stiles’s face before the horrifying look of complete satisfaction takes over.

* * *

Allison is the one to tell him. It’s strange at first, seeing her name on the caller ID. She never calls him, not unless she’s unable to reach Scott first. His role is always the brain, the extra pair of arms or sometimes just ears. When he picks up, he can hear Allison’s voice dripping with worry, and the nervous pause before she speaks the two words that effortlessly hurls his newfound confidence through the window: “ _It’s Lydia._ ”

Stiles is shaking and, though he doesn't get them anymore, feels the familiar symptoms of a panic attack rising above his throat. He’s sure that he’s been standing in the doorway for the past fifteen minutes, but he can’t bring himself to walk toward her bed. He knows it’s selfish—heck, it’s _extremely_ selfish—but he’s not ready to face the guilt as soon as he steps into the room. He knows it won’t just be a quick blow; it’s a steel fist with spikes at the end. Stiles is a lot of things but he knows he’s not a coward, so he takes a deep breath and strides into the room.

She looks sort of peaceful, just like she would when she’s asleep. Not that Stiles is used to watching her sleep. He assumes that’s how she always looks: head tipped slightly, lip gloss still perfectly intact, endless strawberry blond hair spun out like roots, cascading down to her shoulders. But then he catches a glance of the thick bandage wrapped tightly around her waist, and the large streak of blood spreading on one side of it.

He swallows a lump that’s formed in his throat—a lump that feels a lot like anger. He’s angry at Scott, his _best friend_. How long has it been since? One week? Two? And he hasn't mentioned Lydia _once_. He’s angry that his father hasn’t mentioned her either, but then he probably doesn't even know. He’s angry that he has to hear it from Allison of all people, especially since he hasn't even seen _her_ in weeks.

And the fact that _he_ had been the one to inflict pain on her perfect body, whether directly or not, is more than enough to make the already boiling anger burn into a fervent rage.

He reaches for her wrist and feels for a pulse. It’s weak and fading, and it’s barely even there. Lydia Martin was born to die a peaceful death, looking her very best, but Stiles decides that now is just not the time. She hasn’t lived her life to the fullest yet. He may not know exactly what Lydia wants out of life, but he knows it’s definitely not dying at eighteen.

He rifles through his brain for some things that he picked up from Scott and Isaac, and slowly wraps his fingers around her wrist once more. Then, taking a deep breath, he starts drawing the pain from Lydia’s body. It stings and it burns, feeling like a thousand paper cuts on the inside of his skin. But he reminds himself that it’s for Lydia, and his strength recollects and the task becomes relatively easier.

He pauses each time he sees her stir.

He stops once he notices Lydia smiling in her sleep.

* * *

He knows it’s morning from the smells and sounds that come with it. The heated conversations, medical advice, lingering smell of cough syrups and powdery rubber gloves. But what he hears the loudest is the silence from the bed he’d been half-sleeping, half-falling over the night before. He wakes to Lydia staring back at him. He smiles at her.

“Hey, how’re you…” Stiles trails off when he notices her expression.

She looks terrified. She opens her mouth as though she wants to say something, but then closes it again.

“Lydia, what’s wrong?” And then he understands. “It’s okay. It’s me. It’s really me.”

Lydia still looks unsure, but her creased brows relax a little. “Take off your shirt.”

It takes a few long seconds for Stiles to register just what he'd heard. “My…  _shirt_? Lydia, I don’t think it’s—”

“Take. It. Off.”

Stiles looks around the hospital room. They’re the only ones in the tiny room, and everyone else outside seems occupied. He hesitates before removing his shirt.

Lydia isn’t sure exactly what she thinks she would find on his half-naked body, but what she _doesn't_ expect to find are well-toned muscles. She has never seen his body before; she’s sure none of her other friends have and, if she does say so herself, she’s pleasantly surprised at what she sees.

“Turn around,” she instructs, her voice suddenly not as firm as before.

Stiles obeys and, once she’s sure his body is Nogitsune-free, she orders him to put his shirt back on.

He’s seated next to the bed once more, and this time Lydia grabs hold of his face with one hand. She turns his head sideways, peering at his face and inspecting every corner of his pale skin. She looks behind his ear, at the back of his neck, on the lining of his jaws. Then without any warning, she slaps him across his cheek. Stiles yelps, clutching the side of his face. Lydia notices his eyes glow a dull shade of yellow before they turn brown again, and this is enough to confirm her suspicions about what Scott had done to save him.

“Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“Just checking.” Lydia’s lips twitch a little. “You’re clear.”

“I told you, I’m me.”

“Mm,” Lydia mumbles, distracted.

“So how do you feel today?”

“Better. _Not_ like I’m about to die any moment, if that’s any improvement.” After a pause, she says, “Thank you, Stiles.”

“I don't… I don’t know what you’re talking about. The doctors told me you were getting better, and all I had to do was be hopeful.”

“Oh no,” Lydia glowers. “You are _not_ keeping this from me. You are _not_ going to tell me I’m crazy and make me think there’s nothing different about you, only to find out you’re a werewolf when we’re fighting against another monster—”

“Lydia.” Stiles is smiling, and she hates that he’s smiling. “There’s nothing different about me. I’m still that wimpy kid who’s crazy about you. I’m still failing Economics and I still have poor social skills. I can just run better now, and apparently I also heal self-absorbed banshees.”

Lydia doesn't let the ‘self-absorbed banshee’ comment faze her. Instead, she decides to focus on the ‘wimpy kid who’s crazy about you’ part.

“Do you still get panic attacks?”

“No, but I swear I almost did last night when I came by and saw you.”

Lydia doesn't want to smile. She doesn't want to let him know that she’s fallen for his words so easily, but then he’s worded so many flattering remarks to her for as long as she’s known him, and she thinks it’s time to let her heavy guard down and let him in. She’s tired of running away from feelings that are real by burying herself in those that aren’t. She may not be ready to fully embrace them yet, but she wants to try.

She takes his face in her hand again, and just when Stiles thinks she’s going to slap him across his cheek again, she inches her face closer and presses her lips against his very gently.

When their lips pull apart, Lydia can tell he’s trying not to act surprised. Stiles drums his fingers on the side of the bed and clears his throat as though to dispel the tension, but he’s only making it more awkward.

“What… what was that for?” Stiles asks, mumbling the words incoherently.

“Just a thank-you kiss.” Lydia purses her lips, just like she had after the last time they kissed in the boys’ locker room in school when he’d had his panic attack. It feels good to know that she still has that effect on him even now that he’s a werewolf, so she may just believe his word about not being any different than he’s always been.

* * *

They’re watching _The Notebook_. The DVD has been cowering in the back corner of her bookshelf since Jackson left for London. She’s only ever seen the film with _him_ , and after he was gone, she hadn't dared take it out and see it by herself. She had been afraid of all the memories that would come rushing back, as though her heart were the shore and every memory of Jackson came in the form of rolling waves.

But things are different now, and her heart isn't so sheltered anymore. Now she’s finding herself propped on the couch, ready to press ‘PLAY’ on the remote control once Stiles comes back to the TV room with popcorn. He was the one who brought her home; her mother was caught up at work, and her father was off somewhere, most probably unaware of her physical condition.

Stiles had been so careful and gentle—despite the fact that he’s a werewolf, something Lydia often forgets—from checking her out of the hospital, to the car ride, and then helping her into the house. He’d been particularly chatty too, but that’s okay, because when was the last time Lydia had a heart-to-heart conversation with a boy? Too long ago, that’s when.

Stiles comes back with the popcorn. He sinks into the two-seater next to her and immediately digs in, stuffing handfuls of popcorn in his mouth. Just when she’s about to press ‘PLAY’, the doorbell rings once, twice and then once more.

“I’ll get it.” Stiles flashes her a wink and scurries out of the TV room.

“Scott, hey,” he greets his best friend halfheartedly, and his expression hardens. He hasn't particularly forgiven Scott for failing to mention about Lydia.

“Stiles.” Scott looks confused. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Yeah, we’re about to see a movie.”

“Oh, is Allison here too?”

 _Yeah_ , Stiles is itching to say. _We’re actually having a threesome, only we forgot to invite you._ “Nah, it’s… it’s just us.”

“Oh,” Scott says, and then he registers exactly what Stiles meant. “ _Oh._ ”

“Yeah…” Stiles lingers in the doorway. “Look, did you want anything, or…?”

“Not really, I just wanted to know how Lydia was doing. After… you know.”

“Yeah.” Stiles swallows hard. “Yeah, she's doing great.”

“Good.” Scott fiddles with his fingers before turning on his heels. “Well, tell her I said hi.”

“Sure.” Then, sighing, Stiles calls out, “Hey, Scott?”

His best friend turns around almost immediately.

“See you tomorrow? In school?”

“Sure thing, buddy.”

* * *

“Well, who was that?”

“Scott. He wanted to know how you were doing.”

“That’s sweet. Why didn't you invite him in to see the movie with us?”

Stiles frowns. “Did you want him to come in? I could call him up and ask him to turn around.”

Lydia had said that out of spite, but she notices Stiles’s hand balling up into a fist next to her. She wraps her fingers around his hand and rolls her eyes at him.

“I’m joking, Stiles.”

“I know.” Stiles smiles back. “God, Lydia, of course I _know_.”

Stiles picks up the DVD cover from the coffee table. “So, are we watching this baby or what?”

He turns to face Lydia and before he knows what she’s doing, her hands are sliding their way up to his neck and she pulls his face down to kiss him long and deep, and Stiles thinks they probably look like those couples in the cheesiest scenes he has seen in so many romcoms, except now he knows that the movie producers haven’t been showing how the guy _really_ reacts, which is perfectly proven by the bulge in his pants right in this moment.

Stiles slips his fingers onto her skin and they get tangled in her hair as he cradles her head in his hand. He kisses her back, softly at first before diving into the depth of her lips wholly. They stay like that for a while, responding to each other’s kisses like a pair of stubborn, kiss-hungry lovers who have never known what it feels like to kiss someone. It’s an overwhelming sense of greed, but it’s also a want that neither of them wants to leave unfulfilled. Once they pull away, they are both out of breath, as if their kisses had drained all the energy in their bodies.

“What was that for?” Stiles asks, grinning stupidly and still struggling to catch his breath.

“I don’t know,” Lydia replies honestly, “but I can tell you that it _wasn't_ just a thank-you kiss.”

“You know, I think I could be Noah,” Stiles says suddenly, smirking. “I would write you every day for a year. And you’d definitely pass for Allie. I mean, you already have the whole redhead thing going on.”

“Hang on,” Lydia says, staring at him incredulously. “You’ve _seen_ this before?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies nonchalantly.

“Why the hell would you see  _The Notebook_ by yourself?”

Stiles wants to defend himself by saying that he’d seen it with another girl before, that _of course_ he’s seen it with multiple girls. But then again, he knows better than that.

“ _Because_ ,” he says, “it’s your all-time favourite movie, isn’t it?”


End file.
